


Luck

by Argyle



Category: The Charioteer - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Relatively mild wartime gore.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-22
Updated: 2004-08-22
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: After Dunkirk, Ralph must face his own past with the turning of the tide.





	Luck

It was dawn when Ralph awoke.

Breathing deeply, he imagined that he was still at sea. The metal of the forward railing was cold beneath his hands, retaining the reach of midnight’s stars, and the sun moved steadily out from behind the waves. He knew the sound of the water, silver and black, and the shimmer of daylight across the crests and troughs. Breezes brought with them the scents of salt and the bitter union of iron and pitch, only to be further burdened by smoke and ash.

There was none of that here, where the odor of bleach, iodine, and oil hung heavily upon the air, and the scattered moans and conversations of the other patients were muffled by cotton and wool. He pulled the blanket over his face with some hope of completely silencing them, though he at once swore under his breath as the bare tips of his feet were uncovered, chilled and raw in the vanishing shadows.

Yes, as the fates would have it, he was in hospital.

He waited to fully rouse himself from the fitful bounds of sleep, fighting against the bruised weight of his eyelids. Rubber soles padded softly across the grey stone of the floor, moving through the ward and disappearing once more with the clanking of brass latches.

“Ralph?” a familiar voice asked from beside his cot, at once quiet and disarming before the surrounding din.

“Yes.”

“Good morning.”

There was the tentative pressure of a hand upon his shoulder; fingertips grazed the thin fabric of his robe and were gone again after a moment’s pause. At last Ralph opened his eyes. “Hello, Alec.”

“I thought you’d want this,” Alec said, setting a mug onto Ralph’s locker.

“Thank you.” As he sat up to reach forward for it, Ralph glanced indistinctly to the bandages that were tightly wound around his hand. “Still using dishwater, I see,” he chuckled as he took a sip of the coffee, wrinkling his nose.

“Ah, yes,” Alec drawled. “That would be the saccharine.”

Ralph suppressed a cough with the back of his hand. “Arsenic, more like,” he said roughly.

“You’re too kind.” Alec moved to the foot of the bed, picking up the folio that hung against the bars and flipping through it distractedly. “You’re scheduled to go in for surgery today, I see.”

Arching a brow, Ralph glanced up from his coffee. “Am I?” he asked, too weary to acknowledge that the topic had been breached by nearly every passing doctor for the past day and a half. Ralph recognized the exhaustion that was present in the downward strain of Alec’s eyes, the furrow of his brow, and the taut line of his mouth, a series of features that at once seemed to be the worn accessories of his profession. The recent flood of wounded had forced the medical staff to redouble their efforts, and Ralph saw that Alec’s strength was being pushed to its brink as he forced himself to continue on. Ralph swallowed, determined to keep his tone casual. “And you’ve been managing, I trust?”

“Oh,” Alec said, his tongue swiftly grazing across his lips. “It’s been arduous, though I daresay things could be worse.”

“Mm.”

“Anyway, I hope that you’ll forgive me for not coming to see you sooner, of course.” He eyes swept over the rows of patients. “You do understand.”

Ralph flipped open his cigarette case, setting one to his mouth and lighting it with a turn of his wrist. It was an awkward movement, wrought with a fresh wave of frustration as his fingers fumbled with his matches, though he silently waved away Alec’s attempts to help. “Quite.”

Alec briefly closed his eyes with what was almost certainly relief. “Here, let me see,” he said as he reached down to take Ralph’s good hand, his long, calm fingers lingering over Ralph’s wrist as he counted the pulse. He nodded curtly, opening his mouth to speak, only to meet Ralph’s eyes once more, pausing as though he had thought better of it.

“Well?” Ralph asked, drawing heavily upon his cigarette. “What is it, then?”

Alec smiled, arching a brow as he gently replaced Ralph’s arm across the cotton folds of the sheet. “Oh,” he said, his voice suddenly grave. Ralph knew the glint that sparked from the dark curve of his lashes, however brittle. “The prognosis is quite grim, I’m afraid.”

Ralph shook his head, looking away.

“I must say...” Alec began, his brow knitting as he clasped his hands before him. “We were rather concerned about you.”

“We?” Ralph scoffed.

Alec looked expectantly over his shoulder. “Really, my dear, you needn’t put it that way, though I know how you do enjoy it.” He cleared his throat, smiling pleasantly. “Alright, as you wish.”

“Yes,” Ralph said offhandedly. “Yes, of course.”

“Look,” Alec sighed, raising a hand to his temple, clearly hoping to delay the onset of a headache. “You ought not to consider yourself obligated to take such unnecessary risks.”

“ _Unnecessary?_ ”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, come,” Ralph laughed shortly, glancing quickly down to his left hand. “Don’t be such a damned fool.” His lips curled with disdain as he lifted his wrist, allowing the delicate morning light to fall against the swathe of bandages, scarlet and white.

Memories flashed through his mind, wrenching him from the present and drawing away his breath. The wounded lay sprawled across the deck of his ship, reeking with blood and bile, and he stepped around them, his hands clenched. There were voices in the air, clamoring for notice as they were carried and swept by the waters; the heady flavor of brine fell across his tongue. One prayer, a second, the fractured names of beloveds, cries for backup, and he was their captain. If only there was more time, he had sworn to himself as he dashed the sweat from his brow.

There were phantoms in his midst, hanging on to the events that had so unflinchingly transpired with fading grips and bated breath.

Spud Odell was among them. Ralph nearly cried out as he saw the tilt of the boy’s head against the dark planks of wood that lay beneath, the khaki of his uniform stained and glistening with splotches of purple and brown, stretched by exhaustion.

No, he realized, this was not a boy whose hair hung in a russet sweep across the line of his eyes, his frame ashen and lank. Ralph grimaced as he kneeled down, taking the other’s pulse and finally opening the soiled tunic to listen for a beating heart. It seemed that time immemorial passed as Spud met his eye, dark against light, only to be so efficiently and evenhandedly dismissed.

And Spud had smiled.

“Some other time.”

Alec hesitated, folding his arms across his chest. “I beg your pardon?” he asked at last. Any traces of the fatigue that he so obviously felt were shrouded by his clinical tone.

“Oh,” Ralph said, stirring himself and glancing in an uneasy sweep to either side of the ward. “It’s nothing.”

“Really, Ralph,” Alec asserted, lowering his voice. “You were lucky to make it out of there alive. Just think of all the men who didn’t.”

“Yes.” Ralph narrowed his eyes. “Very likely.”

“Don’t let’s continue with--”

“He was there.” Ralph’s words were nearly lost against growing noise around them.

“Who?”

Ralph’s gaze fell as he slowly shook his head.

“ _Ralph?_ ”

“I’m probably just chasing after the specters in the glade.”

“Yes, well.” Alec took a step back, frowning as he slid his hands into the pockets of his crisp, white coat. “Do let me know if there’s anything that I can get for you.”

“A double tot or three, I should think.”

A smile briefly flashed across Alec’s lips. “I’ll check back later on to see how you’re holding up. Try and get some more rest, hmm? I can see that you’ve been up half the night.” With a nod, he moved toward the door, scarcely seeming to notice the tightly packed lines of cots that surrounded him.

With a sigh, Ralph finished his coffee and tugged the linen of his robe tightly about his shoulders. He pulled a tablet from his locker, straightening the pillows that were pressed to his back and allowing his head to settle against the concrete of the wall behind him. Closing his eyes, he tapped his pen lightly across his thigh in a fractured code, allowing himself to remember a singularly fleeting moment that had so quickly and irrevocably become entwined with his spirit.

There had been boxes packed with books on that day, leaving the shelves reluctantly bare, and the air was filled with a distinct, turbulent must. It seemed to be the odor of complacency and the knowledge of oneself, all too easily vanquished by progress and transformation. Laughter flowed out from across the quad, compelled forward by the wind and the brightly tailored cuffs of the lawn, framed by the stately boughs of trees; laughter forced its way through the grill of his hearth, holding the events of past and future within the eyes of charred wood and limbs of flame. Footsteps gently treaded through the hall, pausing with uncertainty before a knock sounded upon the door. As it swung open, Ralph’s breath caught within his throat, and Spud was standing before him.

Seven years clipped at his mind as with the constant wash of the tide.

Ralph began to write.


End file.
